Follow Every Rainbow 2: A Life So Changed
Knowledge suddenly broke over Christian like a wave. "Satine," he whispered, hardly knowing what he was saying.
"You knew Satine?" Olivier asked, visibly shaken. "You knew my mother?"
"You look just like her," Christian said. "Her smile, her hair..." his voice trailed off.
Olivier stared at him in silence for a few moments. Then "come with me," he said, shutting off the light in the room and leading the way through to a small office in the back of the store.
"It was time to close anyway," he said. "Please, sit down." He gestured to a chair and Christian obeyed him, numbly. Olivier sat down on a chair opposite and resumed his story.
"This man, the Duke Beaufort, took me for his own child and gave me his name, because he said he had loved my mother. He brought me up in a castle on the Rhine for the next six years, and on my eighteenth birthday, gave me enough money to do whatever I wished, but specifically so I could establish myself in business. I wanted to sell books. I also had a craving to find out about my mother. The Duke would never say anything about her. So I came here, bought this store from its owner, who was ready to retire, and I have never met anyone who knew my mother, until you walked in tonight." He stood up and looked at Christian with the same look of pleading that Satine had worn, long years ago. "Tell me about her."
"Satine," Christian began, and paused, looking hard at the young man standing across from him. "Oh, you do not know what you are asking me to do. When were you born? Long before I knew her, I'm certain."
"I don't know when I was born in her life, but if you knew her just before her death ten years ago, then I was no longer with her. I have no memory of her at all. There are a few pictures of her and of the scenes in the Moulin Rouge that I have tried to gather together."
"Do you have them here?" Christian asked. "Let me see."
The pictures, too, were familiar, and Christian exclaimed over them as he saw them, for many were by Toulouse, and he had participated in their creation.
"That was Harold Zidler," he said of one. "I wonder if he is still alive."
"I don't know the name," Olivier said, shaking his head.
"He would be the one person who would know about your birth," Christian answered. "He was the owner of the Moulin Rouge."
"The owner!" Olivier grew silent. "He was the man who kept my mother in bondage to that life, then."
"No! That's not quite true." Christian sat up. "I have a story to tell you. It's a story about..." He paused and looked at Olivier, very silent. "...about love. I loved Satine."
"You?" Olivier looked amazed. "But she had to have been several years older than you. You were one of her clients, right?"
Christian shook his head, a horrified look on his face. "Never say that to me again," he whispered, almost deadly. "I loved her, and she loved me. I was the one who held her as she died. I was the one she would have risked her life for. She was the one who inspired everything I had to give; everything I have ever written or sung or breathed was for her."
Olivier said nothing, transfixed by the look on Christian's face.
"She told me to tell our story," Christian went on. "I have never found anyone who wanted to read it. But I think perhaps you should."
"There's a story about Satine?" Olivier looked overwhelmed. "It seems, from what I can find, she just disappeared from history entirely, and remains only in Toulouse's paintings. But if you know, if you've written it down, then of course I need to read it."
"I don't have a copy with me," Christian began.
"Where is this book?" Olivier asked. "I cannot wait another day."
"Come with me," Christian said.
----
Olivier watched in impatient silence as Christian dug the thin manuscript out of his trunk.
"Olivier," he said, just before handing over the sheets of paper, "this is a story about love, written by a grief-stricken man. It occurs to me now that I may have drawn some people in unfavorable lights that seemed to oppose me, your Duke among them. I know now that whatever the Duke's actions may have been in the past, he has done his best to atone for them by giving you every advantage. Read this story with that in mind."
"'Security, that's real love,'" Olivier quoted. "I don't believe that, of course, but in one sense, providing security is a form of love. But what matters is who *she* loved, not who loved her. And that seems to have been you."
With a sad smile, Christian gave Olivier the manuscript. "Stay here and read it," he said. "There is room enough."
"Thank you," Olivier said, sitting down at the small worktable. "I know you don't want to let a precious thing like this out of your hands." He smiled and began to read, as Christian sat down on the bed, and simply watched him.
For the first several moments, Olivier kept looking up to ask questions, but once well into the story, the only thing that could be heard from him was a long-drawn sigh, or, once, a stifled groan of agony. Christian watched the looks play over his face, joy, fear, ecstasy, terror, hope, despair.
At last, with a long sigh, he laid the manuscript down, and looked over at Christian. Almost he seemed about to speak, but at the look on Christian's face, could not. Instead he simply rose from the table, made his way to the bed, and held out his arms.
"I understand everything, now," he whispered, and not waiting for Christian to move, slid onto the bed, and slipped his arms around him, just holding him.
"She was so beautiful," Christian whispered, face muffled in Olivier's shoulder.
Knowledge suddenly broke over Christian like a wave. "Satine," he whispered, hardly knowing what he was saying.
"You knew Satine?" Olivier asked, visibly shaken. "You knew my mother?"
"You look just like her," Christian said. "Her smile, her hair..." his voice trailed off.
Olivier stared at him in silence for a few moments. Then "come with me," he said, shutting off the light in the room and leading the way through to a small office in the back of the store.
"It was time to close anyway," he said. "Please, sit down." He gestured to a chair and Christian obeyed him, numbly. Olivier sat down on a chair opposite and resumed his story.
"This man, the Duke Beaufort, took me for his own child and gave me his name, because he said he had loved my mother. He brought me up in a castle on the Rhine for the next six years, and on my eighteenth birthday, gave me enough money to do whatever I wished, but specifically so I could establish myself in business. I wanted to sell books. I also had a craving to find out about my mother. The Duke would never say anything about her. So I came here, bought this store from its owner, who was ready to retire, and I have never met anyone who knew my mother, until you walked in tonight." He stood up and looked at Christian with the same look of pleading that Satine had worn, long years ago. "Tell me about her."
"Satine," Christian began, and paused, looking hard at the young man standing across from him. "Oh, you do not know what you are asking me to do. When were you born? Long before I knew her, I'm certain."
"I don't know when I was born in her life, but if you knew her just before her death ten years ago, then I was no longer with her. I have no memory of her at all. There are a few pictures of her and of the scenes in the Moulin Rouge that I have tried to gather together."
"Do you have them here?" Christian asked. "Let me see."
The pictures, too, were familiar, and Christian exclaimed over them as he saw them, for many were by Toulouse, and he had participated in their creation.
"That was Harold Zidler," he said of one. "I wonder if he is still alive."
"I don't know the name," Olivier said, shaking his head.
"He would be the one person who would know about your birth," Christian answered. "He was the owner of the Moulin Rouge."
"The owner!" Olivier grew silent. "He was the man who kept my mother in bondage to that life, then."
"No! That's not quite true." Christian sat up. "I have a story to tell you. It's a story about..." He paused and looked at Olivier, very silent. "...about love. I loved Satine."
"You?" Olivier looked amazed. "But she had to have been several years older than you. You were one of her clients, right?"
Christian shook his head, a horrified look on his face. "Never say that to me again," he whispered, almost deadly. "I loved her, and she loved me. I was the one who held her as she died. I was the one she would have risked her life for. She was the one who inspired everything I had to give; everything I have ever written or sung or breathed was for her."
Olivier said nothing, transfixed by the look on Christian's face.
"She told me to tell our story," Christian went on. "I have never found anyone who wanted to read it. But I think perhaps you should."
"There's a story about Satine?" Olivier looked overwhelmed. "It seems, from what I can find, she just disappeared from history entirely, and remains only in Toulouse's paintings. But if you know, if you've written it down, then of course I need to read it."
"I don't have a copy with me," Christian began.
"Where is this book?" Olivier asked. "I cannot wait another day."
"Come with me," Christian said.
----
Olivier watched in impatient silence as Christian dug the thin manuscript out of his trunk.
"Olivier," he said, just before handing over the sheets of paper, "this is a story about love, written by a grief-stricken man. It occurs to me now that I may have drawn some people in unfavorable lights that seemed to oppose me, your Duke among them. I know now that whatever the Duke's actions may have been in the past, he has done his best to atone for them by giving you every advantage. Read this story with that in mind."
"'Security, that's real love,'" Olivier quoted. "I don't believe that, of course, but in one sense, providing security is a form of love. But what matters is who *she* loved, not who loved her. And that seems to have been you."
With a sad smile, Christian gave Olivier the manuscript. "Stay here and read it," he said. "There is room enough."
"Thank you," Olivier said, sitting down at the small worktable. "I know you don't want to let a precious thing like this out of your hands." He smiled and began to read, as Christian sat down on the bed, and simply watched him.
For the first several moments, Olivier kept looking up to ask questions, but once well into the story, the only thing that could be heard from him was a long-drawn sigh, or, once, a stifled groan of agony. Christian watched the looks play over his face, joy, fear, ecstasy, terror, hope, despair.
At last, with a long sigh, he laid the manuscript down, and looked over at Christian. Almost he seemed about to speak, but at the look on Christian's face, could not. Instead he simply rose from the table, made his way to the bed, and held out his arms.
"I understand everything, now," he whispered, and not waiting for Christian to move, slid onto the bed, and slipped his arms around him, just holding him.
"She was so beautiful," Christian whispered, face muffled in Olivier's shoulder.